


In Anno Domini Nostri

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Horror, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3843562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It came in the mail. A gift from a fan, one of many that came to HQ, but this one was different enough to be noticed from the get-go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deus Culpa

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Ghost (B.C)'s music.

It came in the mail. A gift from a fan, one of many that came to HQ, but this one was different enough to be noticed from the get-go. Special enough to grab people’s attention, and safe enough to land in James’s lap when he arrived that morning to rehearsal.  
  
One of the workers handed him over the opened box and said, “It’s a doll.”  
  
“A doll?” James pulled it out. The box tumbled to the floor. “What the…” He turned it around in his grip. “Where did this come from?”  
  
“Some local guy in SF.”  
  
James took all the differences – the pale skin, the black… cloak, the leather gloves, the dark circles around the eyes – and noticed the similarities – the eyes, the hair (what it was then, 20 so years ago, long, frazzled, and in his face), the old mutton chops, the facial features. Even then, the cheeks were sunken in, and his nose and chin were sharper.   
  
He laid it on the kitchen counter. “This barely looks anything like me.”   
  
“Yeah. There’s a note inside too.”  
  
James checked in the box. A small, ripped piece of binder paper stuck to the bottom.  
  
He pulled it out and held it between his index finger and thumb.  
  
In jagged, scrawled penmanship, it read:   
  
_A gift for The Man._  
  
“Huh.” He dropped the paper next to the doll. “Weird.”   
  
Kirk enjoyed the doll more than James did. “This is so amazing. It’s like you, but with an Alice Cooper ‘Welcome to my Nightmare’ twist.” He tugged on the doll’s cloak. “Wish my fans were this cool.”  
  
“You have dolls of yourself.”  
  
“See, I had to make that happen myself,  _for_  myself. This is different.” He laughed. “Hell, it’s fucking awesome, bro! No fan’s ever done something like this for me.” He handed the doll over.   
  
James took it. “What about that oil painting someone drew of you as Kirk von Hammett?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s cool and all, but this? This is original. It’s something someone thought of and made specifically for you,  _about_  you. Now, is that creepy? Sure, I guess. It’s got a voodoo doll vibe, sort of. But let’s be honest. This is definitely  _not_  the weirdest thing any of us has received in the mail over the last twenty-plus years, by far. So, personally, I’d take this as a compliment. Someone has a very creative imagination and decided to use that for you.”  
  
“I guess.”  
  
“Hey.” Kirk touched his shoulder. “Think about it this way. Whoever it is just came up with your costume for this year.” He patted James’s back as he walked away. “Tis the season and all!”  
  
Rob thought the same as Kirk. “It is pretty cool. Different, but cool. I wouldn’t think anything of it.”  
  
Lars, at least, said, “That’s fucking weird.” Then Lars left James to do what Lars did best: business.   
  
When James showed others that day, they either reacted like Kirk or Lars: fascinated or confused. But no one took a second glance at it. No one second-guessed.   
  
The words blended together into one universal sentiment. “It’s Halloween. It’s a gift. Think nothing of it. It’s kinda cool. It’s different. If you don’t like it, you can throw it away. It doesn’t matter. Who cares?”   
  
So James dismissed it for the rest of the day. Forgot all about it until the evening, when most of everyone was gone from HQ, and only he was left – he and the doll.   
  
He picked it up from the counter and held it in his hand, taking in the outfit again. The eyes. The face.   
  
James shrugged. “Whatever.”  
  
The doll landed at the bottom of a box it came in. James gripped it with one hand as he headed to his truck.   



	2. Con Clavi Con Dio

The house was dark and cold when James entered that evening. The only light he found was upstairs in the bedroom.   
  
He ignored it and headed to the back and the bottom stairs.  
  
The doll ended up in James’s basement studio, situated on a shelf between a pack of guitar picks and a row of music books.   
  
When he went back upstairs, he found Lars in the kitchen, standing in front of the microwave oven cross-armed, still in the same clothes he wore today but barefoot. “Hey.”  
  
“Hi.”  
  
“I’m heating up that Wild Salmon shit you like from Trader Joe’s.”  
  
“Sounds good.”   
  
He dug out of the fridge a can of Coke.   
  
Leaning against the kitchen counter, James popped it open and watched Lars glare at the microwave on the opposite end of the room.  
  
_Nnnn._  
  
James sipped.   
  
Lars sniffed and rubbed his nose.   
  
_Nnnn._  
  
Around and around the two plates went inside.   
  
_Nnnn._  
  
Then, Lars said, “I thought we were going out.”  
  
The timer dinged.   
  
Lars pulled the handle. The door swung open. Steam rose out.   
  
He snatched a plate out of the adjacent upper cabinet.   
  
James cleared his throat—  
  
“Don’t bother.” Reaching into the microwave, Lars pulled one box out by the edge, sliding it onto his plate. “Another time, I guess.”  
  
He slammed the microwave door.  
  
James flinched.  
  
Lars turned his back to James and walked out.   
  
James stayed in place, against the kitchen counter, hearing the creaks of Lars’s footsteps ascending the stairs, and the shut of the bedroom door. Not a slammed door, at least.   
  
He rubbed at his face.  
  
Under his breath, he mumbled, “Godfuck _dammit._ ”  
  
Later that evening, when enough hours had passed that the infomercials began on Comedy Central, James ventured up the stairs and into the bedroom, where he found Lars under the covers, an empty glass of wine on the nightstand, along with his empty plate and Trader Joe’s dinner box.   
  
James peered at Lars.  
  
Lips parted. Light breathing. Shut eyes.   
  
Dead out.  
  
He cleared the nightstand of the glass and the plate.   
  
Once back upstairs, he dressed into his night shorts, threw the dirty clothes in the hamper, turned off the lights – and stopped on his side of the bed, staring at the back of Lars’s head.   
  
In the meager moonlight coming from the window, James watched the sheet move with Lars’s breathing.   
  
Slowly, James sat down on the edge.   
  
The bed creaked under him as he shifted his legs up and under the covers, pulling a blanket over his legs.   
  
He rolled onto his side, his back turned to Lars.   
  
His eyes shut.  
  
Then, he heard Lars say, “Don’t fuck up again.”  
  
“I—”  
  
“Good night.”  
  
James sighed. He hugged the pillow to him, settling into the comforting darkness behind his lids. “Night.”  
  
On some nights, sleep came easy to James, especially after spending hours traveling to the next gig while on tour, or spending hours in the studio, writing and recording. On some nights, sleep was impossible, especially after spending hours playing on stage in front of thousands, or after spending fruitless hours in the studio, writing or recording tracks that ended up going nowhere.   
  
This night, James found a middle. Exhausted enough to sleep and keep his eyes shut, but awake enough to know he was awake. To know he couldn’t pass out, just yet.  
  
He shifted around. His arms. His legs.   
  
Felt right – and then he didn’t.   
  
Moved around some more. Legs at a different angle. Arms at a different angle.   
  
Hugged the pillow at a different angle.   
  
Let go of the pillow.  
  
Rolled onto his other side.   
  
Shrugged the sheets off.  
  
Lars grumbled, “Stop it.”  
  
“Sorry.” James rolled onto his back. “It’s warm.”  
  
“No it isn’t. I’m fucking freezing here.”  
  
And it should’ve been freezing. James should have felt cold. There was fog outside the window, thick San Francisco fog, and the moonlight kept coming in and out, the clouds were that thick, and yet it wasn’t cold, it felt warm, he felt warm, and weird, and it didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel—  
  
_EXSUSCITO_  
  
His eyes blew wide open.   
  
_A SOMNO EXSUSCITEM EUM_  
  
James jolted upright.   
  
_IN FINIS_  
  
He scrambled out of bed.  
  
_IN PRINCIPO_  
  
Jerked open the curtains.  
  
_HOMO SUPER TERAM_  
  
Nothing outside.  
  
_HOC NUNC EST_  
  
Nothing in the room.   
  
_HIC EST IN RELIQUUM_  
  
“Lars! Do you hear that?”  
  
_PRAESENTIA_  
  
He turned to the bed.   
  
_ABHINC_  
  
Lars hadn’t moved at all.  
  
_OMNES MORIEMUR_  
  
“Lars! Come on!” He came to his side. “Don’t tell me you’re—”  
  
Red eyes in darkness.  
  
James froze.  
  
In a flash—claws, blood, inhuman growl, fangs, a  _ROAR—_  
  
_INTERFICIET_  
  
“ _NO!_ ”  
  
Darkness.   
  
James stared ahead.  
  
Darkness, and nothing, and…   
  
The living room. The couch. Not even in bed, or in the bedroom.   
  
He touched his arms. His throat.   
  
Sweating. Shaking.  
  
Heartbeat.   
  
Alive.  
  
Not real.  
  
Alive.  
  
“What the fuck, Hetfield?”  
  
He jerked around.  
  
Lars stood at the bottom of the stairs, wrapping the sash of his robe around his waist. “You scared the shit out of me.”  
  
“I…” Dry throat. Shaking. Heartbeat. Too fast.   
  
He looked away.   
  
Too real. But not real.  
  
Not real.  
  
James slumped back into the couch.  
  
“James?” Lars sounded concerned.   
  
“M’fine. Nightmare.”  
  
“Some nightmare.” He heard Lars’s footsteps retreating from the room. “I’ll get you—”  
  
“I’m fine. I don’t need anything.”  
  
“But—“  
  
“Just leave me alone. Got it?”  
  
Lars grunted.  
  
Stomping footsteps, ascending the stairs.   
  
This time, the bedroom door slammed closed.   
  
James rubbed his trembling hands over his sweaty fast.  
  
He sunk into the couch.   
  
“Fuck.”   



	3. Ritual

The next day at HQ, James functioned without many mishaps. They wrote a few songs. Lars kept the professional wall up between them. No arguments. No fights. And aside from a few yawns that escaped into the open, the fatigue, the dizziness, and the concerned looks more than a few people sent his way, James was fine. James was okay.   
  
Towards the afternoon, when Lars was gone for the rest of the day, he finally grabbed Kirk, pulled him out into the back parking lot of HQ and said, “I had a nightmare.”  
  
“Uh. Okay?”  
  
“It was a really,  _really_  fucked up nightmare. I couldn’t sleep after it.”  
  
“So that’s why you took cat naps today. No wonder.” He smirked. “And here I thought you and Lars—”  
  
“You wish.”  
  
“Must’ve been some fucked up dream.”  
  
“Yeah. It was. I don’t have dreams like this. Ever. Even my nightmares post-Montreal were tame compared to this.”  
  
“Wow.” Kirk frowned. “What do you think caused this to happen?”   
  
“The doll.”  
  
Kirk stared.  
  
“It has to be.”  
  
“You’re serious.”  
  
“I know it sounds like something out of a damn horror movie, but all my life, I have never, ever had nightmares like the one I had last night. And all of a sudden, I had one, and it happened the same day I got that doll.”  
  
“Then get rid of it.”  
  
James blinked.   
  
“What’s the big deal? If it’s bothering you that much—”  
  
“Won’t there be repercussions or something like that?”  
  
“How would I know?”  
  
“Because you like this horror shit!”  
  
“All right, Jesus!” Kirk shrugged. “Well, I don’t think so. I told you before. It isn’t a voodoo doll. There’s nothing part of you with that doll. So get rid of it. Trash it, burn it, whatever. I don’t think anything else will happen.”  
  
“I hope not.” James rubbed at his face. “I never want that to happen again.”  
  
“I bet. Personally, I think the problems between you and Lars manifested into that fucked-up nightmare, but…” He threw his hands in the air.   
  
James leaned against the concrete wall. He pulled at the skin of his face, the eyelids inside-out for a brief moment, the fingers skipping down his cheeks to his chin and off.   
  
He slammed the palms against his thighs and gripped them hard.   
  
“I hate fans,” he mumbled.   
  
Kirk leaned against the wall with his shoulder. He crossed his arms.  
  
James sighed.   
  
A co-worker passed by them without a word or a glance.   
  
The wind blew.   
  
James stared at the ground.  
  
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said.   
  
Kirk touched his shoulder. “Get rid of that doll, then get some rest, bro.” He squeezed it. “You need it.”  
  
“Yeah.” James looked up and ahead.   
  
Red eyes.  
  
The roar. The fangs and claws.  
  
James swallowed.   
  
A beast.  
  
He rose a hand to his throat and rubbed it.  
  
_INTERFICIET.  
  
**INTERFICIET.**_  
  
“James?”  
  
He startled. “Yeah.” Shrugged Kirk’s hold off his shoulder. “Thanks.” Pushed away from the wall and walked back to HQ.   
  
Later that night, when he was positive Lars was asleep upstairs and thick fog rolled in from the Bay, James went out back with lighter fluid in one hand, the doll in the other.   
  
He threw the ‘gift’ into the barbecue pit and doused it.   
  
A flick of a match.   
  
A flick of his wrist.  
  
The pit burst in bright yellow-orange light, pushing back against the fog.   
  
He watched the doll burn in the flames. The smouldering. The disfiguration. The blackening. Until it was dust. Until it was nothing.  
  
It was nothing.  
  
Nothing.  
  
When the flames finally died out, he threw the leftover ashes and pieces into the garbage, slamming the lid shut.   
  
And despite all that, James laid on the couch, staring up into the darkness of the living room, wide awake.   
  
He counted backwards from 100 to 59.   
  
He read a few articles on his iPhone.  
  
He checked his mail. His text messages.  
  
He put on the TV for half an hour, watching Happy Days.   
  
Then back to the ceiling. Back to the darkness.   
  
Darkness and silence.   
  
And cold.   
  
James shut his eyes.   
  
He wriggled in place, pulling the blanket tighter around him.   
  
Still cold.   
  
James hissed, twitching around, shifting his arms and legs around.  
  
Still not right.  
  
He slid off the couch to the floor, taking a pillow with him.   
  
Laying flat on his back, with the pillow elevating his head, James settled into the floor, sighing through his nose.  
  
His lips curled up. “Better.”  
  
With each deep breath he took, James felt heavier. He felt like he was submerging, falling deep below the ground—below the whole world, and it felt good, and safe, and needed.   
  
It was over.  
  
It was nothing.  
  
It was—  
  
Hot.  
  
Suddenly hot.  
  
James groaned. “Goddamn it Lars, it’s not that cold.” He rolled his head to the side.   
  
He didn’t move. He was close, so close to sleep…  
  
And the heat intensified.   
  
Sweat formed on his brow, under his chin.  
  
His clothes stuck to his skin.  
  
James sighed. “Goddamnit.” He lifted a hand up to the blankets.   
  
It slammed right back down to the carpet.  
  
“What?” Same with the other hand. His legs. “What the…”  
  
He looked down at himself.  
  
Shackled. Wrists and ankles, cuffed to something cool, something white, a smooth surface, like—  
  
_HOMO SUPER TERAM_  
  
A bright orange light.  
  
James gasped.  
  
_HOMO MUNDI_  
  
Hooded figure, silhouetted by the light, the only light in the darkness.  
  
The light that burned, in a room too hot.   
  
_IMMO VENTI HORA_  
  
“This isn’t happening.” James jerked on his chains. “This can’t be—!”  
  
_INTERFICIET._  
  
“Let me go!”  
  
_INTERFICIET._  
  
Red eyes.  
  
James froze.  
  
Fangs claws blood poised to his heart the  _ROAR_ —  
  
**_EXSUSCITO_**  
  
_”AHHHH!”_


	4. Elizabeth

“I can’t tell anyone else this. Especially not Lars. You’re the only one who will believe me. The only one who won’t think I’m crazy.”  
  
James looked up from where he sat, hunched over on Kirk’s couch, holding a steaming cup of tea.  
  
In the den of Kirk’s home—surrounded by Universal monster movie posters, wax figurines of horror figures, and paintings of characters played by Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, and Lon Chaney—Kirk sat across from James, arms crossed, and frowning.  
  
“What happened?”   
  
He licked his dry lips.  
  
“It didn’t work.” He twisted his hands together between his thighs. “They came back.”  
  
“The nightmares?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“I thought—”  
  
“I did, I burned it, I watched that stupid fucking doll burn right in front of my eyes, but it didn’t work. It didn’t  _fucking work._ ” He wiped his trembling hands over his face.   
  
Behind the darkness of his lids, he saw red eyes, and fangs, and claws.  
  
And the figure.  
  
The man.   
  
“I had a feeling it wouldn’t,” Kirk said.  
  
James jerked his head up from his palms. “What?”  
  
“The nightmares. I knew they’d come back. The doll wasn’t—”  
  
“You have to believe me.”  
  
“Possessed dolls causing nightmares is nothing but hocus-pocus bullshit, and you know it. It’s all fantasy—a fantasy you keep making up, because you won’t face the truth.” Kirk crossed his arms. “You’re having nightmares because of the shit between you and Lars, and you’re blaming a dumb fan gift instead of yourself. Grow up.”  
  
James tightened his grip on the mug.   
  
“You have to talk to Lars about this, and I don’t mean the doll. You have to talk about what’s happening between the two of you.”  
  
His hands shook.  
  
The liquid in the mug sloshed around.  
  
“You can’t go around thinking what you two have is going to last forever, because it won’t, James. It won’t, unless you—yes, you—address your problems with Lars directly. Didn’t therapy teach you better?”  
  
Hot.  
  
He felt hot.   
  
“Stop acting like a child, and for fuck’s sake, stop using me as your crutch. I’m not your referee anymore. You’re not bringing me in the middle of this again.”  
  
His teeth chattered.  
  
His vision tunneled.   
  
“If you want some advice on how to approach it with Lars, I’ll be more than happy to help you out. God knows Lars can be difficult at times...”  
  
He watched Kirk’s lips move.  
  
Kirk was talking.   
  
James didn’t hear it.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Nothing except…   
  
The heat. The encroaching darkness.   
  
The whispers.  
  
_exsuscito  
  
homo mundi  
  
homo super teram_  
  
Darkness.  
  
Too hot.  
  
_a somno exuscitem eum in finis in principo_  
  
The hooded figure.  
  
The faceless man.  
  
The ungodly heat.  
  
_in nomine hominis  
  
in nomine dominus_  
  
Fangs.  
  
Claws.  
  
_INTERFICIET_  
  
James gasped.  
  
_CRASH._  
  
“Woah!”   
  
Darkness gone. Man gone.   
  
“What the fuck?”  
  
Not hot anymore.  
  
“Why’d you…?”  
  
Kirk. Kirk’s voice.  
  
Kirk’s house. Kirk’s den.  
  
Kirk, looking worried.  
  
“James?”  
  
He looked down.   
  
Sharp mug pieces scattered on the hardwood floor. Tea spilled.   
  
_Blink._  
  
Blood spilled.  
  
_Blink._  
  
Tea.  
  
_Blink._  
  
Blood.  
  
_Blink._  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
Kirk’s hand came into his vision. Fingers touched his wrist.   
  
“James.”  
  
He looked up.   
  
Concern.   
  
Concern, on Kirk’s face, that turned to sadness.   
  
“Look, if you really need my help—”  
  
James jerked his hand away and stood up from the couch, hissing into Kirk’s face, “You can’t help me.” He turned around, snatching his coat up from the headrest. “You can’t do  _shit._ ”   



	5. Stand by Him

When James returned home, he found no Lars inside. He turned on every single light, in every downstairs room to every upstairs room, leaving every door open—despite it still being daylight outside.   
  
In the living room, James waited.   
  
He turned on the television for the sake of noise.   
  
For a small while, things felt normal. It felt fine.   
  
Then—  
  
_homo mundi  
  
homo super teram  
  
homo peccati_  
  
James squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
“Go away.”  
  
_propterea ecce dies veniunt_  
  
He curled into himself.  
  
_exsuscito_  
  
“Please.”  
  
_tempore_  
  
“Leave me alone.”  
  
_in finis in principo  
  
hoc nunc est  
  
id est in fata_  
  
James snatched up the remote and pulled the volume all the way on high. As high as it could go.   
  
The whispers faded away.  
  
He threw the remote onto the coffee table and stayed curled up on the couch, his breathing erratic, sweat dripping down his face.   
  
In a little over an hour, the sun fell outside the window.   
  
Half an hour later, and it was pitch black. Black and foggy.  
  
Then, he heard the rattle of the doorknob, the crack of the front door opening, and footsteps.   
  
“James?” Lars’s voice. “You in?”  
  
“Y…” He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”  
  
Keys landing on a table. Ruffle of a jacket following.  
  
“Why is the TV volume so high?”  
  
Footsteps coming closer.   
  
“And since when did you watch Leave It To Beaver? I thought you’d be watching…”   
  
From the corner of James’s vision, he saw Lars stop in the middle of the living room’s archway entrance. Black sweater. Blue jeans. Barefoot.   
  
“Football…”  
  
Lars eyed the television. Eyed James.  
  
“James?”   
  
Lars came closer.  
  
Lars crossed his vision.   
  
The couch beside him sunk in, as Lars sat beside him.   
  
An obnoxious commercial on the TV.   
  
Fingers touched his arm—and James flinched.   
  
Lars pulled his hand away and sighed. “Okay.” He reached forward, grabbing the remote. “What’s going on?” The volume lowered, all the way down.  
  
James choked out, “Don’t.”  
  
“Don’t what?”  
  
“Lower it.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
James stared ahead.   
  
The commercial ended.  
  
Another one came on.  
  
Click.  
  
The screen went to black.  
  
James shouted, “No!”   
  
“You weren’t even watching!”  
  
“It doesn’t matter!” He grabbed the remote from Lars’s grip, turning it back on. “I need it on.”  
  
“What the fuck for?”  
  
“I can’t tell you.”  
  
“Jesus fucking...” Lars pushed off the couch and walked out of the living room to the kitchen.   
  
He turned the volume back up as he mumbled under his breath, “You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”  
  
From the opposite end of the room, Lars said, “Maybe if you talked to me more often, I would.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“Then what’s the fucking point anymore?! Why the fuck do I keep trying, uh? Fuck, I don’t know what to do anymore. I love you, James, but for the last year or so, I’m constantly the one putting in the effort to make things work between us, and you haven’t put the same effort back. A relationship isn’t a one-way street. You know that. I know that. Maybe I haven’t been giving you the things you really need. Maybe there’s something I’m doing that’s pissing you off. But how the fuck am I supposed to know when you haven’t said jack shit to me? I can’t fix shit if you don’t tell me shit, you know? You won’t even tell me about the nightmares you’ve been having lately. So, I want you—I  _need_  you to trust me. Please, James. I don’t know when that stopped, I don’t even know why it’s happening, but know that I’m here for you. I love you. Don’t shut me out. Don’t push me away. Talk to me.”  
  
James stared at the screen.  
  
Commercial change.  
  
Sounds. Voices.  
  
“James.”  
  
Another commercial change.   
  
Different sounds and voices.  
  
No whispers.  
  
No more whispers.  
  
“Are you even listening to me?”  
  
Another commercial.  
  
No whispers.  
  
Sounds.  
  
Sounds—  
  
“James!”  
  
“I can’t,” James said.  
  
“Can’t what?”  
  
“Talk to you.” He felt his chest tighten. His eyes stung.  
  
“Why?”  
  
_homo mundi_  
  
Blurry vision.  
  
“Because…”  
  
_homo super teram_  
  
Dry lips. Heavy weight, total body.  
  
_homo peccati_  
  
“I don’t trust you anymore.”   
  
_in homine mendaciorum_  
  
“I don’t love you anymore.”  
  
_inceptus_  
  
Footsteps, stomping away.  
  
James shut his eyes. Hot tears burned down his cheeks.  
  
In a commercial and a half, he heard Lars storm down the steps again. From the corner of his vision, he catch one lone suitcase in hand.   
  
Keys rattling.  
  
James grit his teeth.  
  
Jacket picked up.  
  
He squeezed his arms around himself.  
  
Door opening.  
  
His lips parted, and he choked out, “Lars—“  
  
_SLAM._  
  
James bowed forward, pressed his mouth to his palms and muffled his agonized cry, so Lars would not hear it outside.   



	6. Satan's Prayer

For three days, the internet became James’s escape. He dove into his iPhone at HQ and his laptop at home at every chance he could get. It kept him from being distracted by what was happening—Lars moving his things out little by little over the next few days, Kirk prodding for information, Rob asking if he was okay, everyone at HQ wondering if he needed anything—and instead, he focused on what mattered more.   
  
Researching. Learning. Understanding.   
  
Hearing those damn words again and again. Using the online dictionary and Google Translate to figure out the wording of the words, the exact spelling, the phrasing.  
  
He blocked out the world and listened.   
  
Again, and again, they came. At morning. At night.   
  
_excuscito_  
  
They haunted him.  
  
_homo super teram_  
  
The whispers. The voices.  
  
_homo mundi_  
  
Everywhere.  
  
_homo peccati_  
  
Kirk asked him, again and again, “What happened? What did you do? What made Lars leave you?”  
  
_in finis_  
  
Rob asked him, “Do you want to talk?”  
  
_in principo_  
  
Everyone else asked, “Can I help? Need anything? I want to help.”  
  
_hic est in reliquum_  
  
James ignored them with his silence, his grunts, a sharp “No.”   
  
The voices.   
  
_in nomine hominis_  
  
The whispers.  
  
_in nomine dominus_  
  
He had to know.   
  
_interficiet_  
  
He had to learn.  
  
It took 24 hours for Rob to back off.  
  
The next day, Kirk followed.   
  
Then everyone else the day after.   
  
Lars never bothered him once, even when he came over to the house to take out more of his things. Not a hello. Not a goodbye. Barely looking him in the eye. He had everything gone within two days.  
  
It hurt. But James swallowed it and settled into the icy wall he reserved specially for the world, a technique he mastered over the years. He was fine. He was okay. This was his decision. This was his choice. No one had to help. There was nothing to help.   
  
No one could help anyway.   
  
He had a purpose. A job to do.   
  
He had to learn. To understand.  
  
The voices. The whispers.  
  
And on day three, late at night in his office, James stared at the pad of paper on his lap, the dim light of his computer desk lamp illuminating his pen -cratched words.   
  
He glanced back at the computer screen and the Word document open, with some of the words translated.   
  
_excuscito  
  
homo super teram   
  
homo mundi   
  
awaken   
  
the hand of man  
  
man of the world _  
  
He eyed the next few words and phrases translated.   
  
_in finis in principo  
  
the end, the beginning   
  
hic est in reliquum  
  
this is the end_  
  
The voices rose in volume. The whispers repeated.   
  
James read the next phrases.   
  
_in nomine hominis  
  
in nomine dominus   
  
a somno exsuscitem eum  
  
in the name of the man  
  
in the name of the lord   
  
awaken him _  
  
He swallowed.   
  
The last word. The one he researched first.   
  
_interficiet  
  
kill _  
  
James rested his shaky fingers on the keyboard.   
  
He looked down at the pad of paper.   
  
The last hour, the voices whisper-chanted one phrase again and again. It took an hour to figure out how to spell it correctly.   
  
He typed into Google Translate:   
  
_omnes moriemur_  
  
His pinky hit “Enter.”  
  
His eyes widened.   
  
_we will all die_  
  
“What the—”  
  
The “Enter” button clicked.   
  
James gasped and jumped back in his seat.   
  
And again.  
  
The keyboard typed, letter by letter.   
  
James shivered.  
  
He stared at the blinking cursor.   
  
In Google Translate, one by one, a word formed.   
  
_INCEPTUS_  
  
Enter.  
  
_IT HAS BEGUN_  
  
Then the blinds to his windows turned shut. The curtains closed.  _Click click click_  of each window locking in his office.  
  
“What the fuck?!” James scrambled out of his seat to the window.   
  
The voices whisper-chanted:  _inceptus. inceptus. inceptus_  
  
He yanked open a curtain, turned the blinds—and found a black wall where the outside had been.   
  
“What…”  
  
He pulled open the window from the bottom. His trembling fingertips reached out to touch.  
  
They came in contact with solid wall.   
  
_inceptus_  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
_inceptus_  
  
He checked every window in his office.   
  
Same thing.  
  
_inceptus_  
  
“No. No!”  
  
_inceptus_  
  
He ran out of the room to one of the guest rooms, checking the windows, and found the same black wall.   
  
“No no NO!”  
  
_inceptus_  
  
The living room. The dining room. The kitchen. All the windows. All the same.  
  
_inceptus_  
  
Front door locked. Back door locked. Sliding door to the outside patio jammed.   
  
_inceptus_  
  
Garage door locked.   
  
_inceptus_  
  
“Let me out!” He banged his palm against the garage door. “Let me OUT!”  
  
The chants grew louder.   
  
_inceptus_   _inceptus_   _inceptus_  
  
He took a few steps back.   
  
_inceptus_  
  
Rammed his shoulder into the door.   
  
_inceptus_  
  
Again.  
  
_incepTUS_  
  
And again.  
  
_INCEPTUS_  
  
And again.  
  
_INCEPTUS_  
  
On the last try, James cried out, sliding the side of his body down the door.   
  
_NON EFFUGIES_  
  
He slid onto the ground.   
  
_ID EST IN FATA_  
  
James curled over, pressing his back to the door, the top of his head hitting the wood and his voice turning raw from his long, blood-curdling scream.   
  
_HOMO SUPER TERAM_  
  
He slammed his fists against the door.   
  
_HOMO MUNDI_  
  
Again. And again.   
  
_HOMO PECCATI_  
  
He curled up, pressing his knees to his chest, and burying his face into the denim of his jeans, muffling his cries.   
  
_IN NOMINE HOMINUS_  
  
His hands dug into his hair, pulling on the scalp.  
  
_IN NOMINE DOMINUS_  
  
He rocked back and forth.   
  
_OMNES MORIEMUR_  
  
“No…”  
  
_INCEPTUS_  
  
“Please…”  
  
**_INCEPTUS_**  
  
“Let me go... let me go…”  
  
The chants continued—as whispers, as screams, as shouts—as James cried into his knees. 


	7. Death Knell

No escape. The doors and windows never opened, no matter how hard he tried. The phones didn’t work. No television. No internet. The clocks stopped. The fridge stopped running. Neither the stove or oven turned on.   
  
Only the lights and the water worked.   
  
James sat on the couch.   
  
Alone. Cut off from the world.   
  
Except…  
  
_homo super teram  
  
homo mundi   
  
homo peccati   
  
tempus enim prope est _  
  
He shut his eyes.   
  
_inceptus_  
  
The voices came in and out. Sometimes they woke him up from the little, meager sleep he caught. Sometimes they followed him from room to room.   
  
“What do you want from me?” He stared at the floor. The walls. The ceiling. “Why are you doing this?”  
  
_hic est in relliquum_  
  
“Let me go.”  
  
_hoc est finis_  
  
“Please. Let me go.”  
  
_ad principo ad finem_  
  
“I’m not what you want—fuck, I don’t even know what you want!”  
  
_omnes moriemur_  
  
“Just… let me go…”  
  
_moriemini_  
  
He buried his face in his hands.  
  
“Let me out of here…”  
  
Food dwindled down. What was in the fridge spoiled in a few days—what James thought were days. There was no time. There was nothing to let him know what was happening outside of the prison of his own home. He rationed what he had left, the non-perishables, and made due.   
  
He read to pass the time. Read magazines. Read two books he never got to reading.   
  
He felt weaker all around.   
  
His head hurt. His eyes hurt. Even his teeth pulsed in pain.   
  
And the voices kept coming.   
  
_ecce venit  
  
tempus advenit  
  
maligno surget_  
  
Time and time again, as he arose from sleep, either on his bed, the floor, or the couch, he felt different. He felt his body felt sluggish, and weird, and wrong.   
  
He looked at himself in the mirror.   
  
Paler skin. Thinning, whiter hair. Sunken in cheeks. Dark circles around his eyes.   
  
Food deprivation. Sleep deprivation. Stress. Anxiety. All of it hitting and happening at the same time.   
  
“They’re killing me,” he whispered.   
  
James looked down at his hands.   
  
He ran his right fingers over the top of his left hand.   
  
The wrinkles. The veins.   
  
Pale and—  
  
Black finger beds.   
  
James looked at the other hand.  
  
Both his hands had blackening fingernails.   
  
“Oh God.”  
  
He looked back up at his reflection.   
  
_mutabis_  
  
He ran a hand through his hair.  
  
_moriemini_  
  
A few strands pushed out, stuck to the finger webbings.   
  
_consurgetis_  
  
He did it again—and more fell out.  
  
_in nomine dominus_  
  
Again.   
  
_in nomine hominis_  
  
Hair piled into the sink.  
  
_exsuscito_  
  
A blackened thumbnail followed.  
  
_tempus advenit_  
  
Then a tooth.  
  
_maligno surgent_  
  
James ran his palms over his head—what was left of his hair, the thin chunks scattered on his scalp—and  _screamed._  
  
**_INCEPTUS_**    



	8. Prime Mover

It was over. The pain finally stopped. His mouth stopped throbbing first. Then his arms. His legs. His head went last.  
  
James sat hunched over on the floor in the darkness of the living room.   
  
He could see.   
  
He could see as clear as day in the darkness of the living room.  
  
He looked down at his hands.   
  
Crooked. Curled in.   
  
His toes the same.  
  
His knees protruded out, punched out of his ripped clothes, and they curled at a weird angle too.   
  
Scattered around him lay the very last strands of his hair.   
  
He pushed his palm to the floor and swiped it away.   
  
_homo peccati_  
  
James looked up.  
  
_homo super teram_  
  
A form, in the darkness.   
  
_homo mundi_  
  
A cloaked figure.   
  
It stepped forward.   
  
_tempus advenit_  
  
Reached for the hood and pulled it back.   
  
_tempus est etiam_  
  
James gasped.   
  
The doll.   
  
“I knew it.” He pointed to the man—the living doll. “This is your doing. This is your fault!”  
  
The doll shook his head. “I choose this form because you wish it to be.” He chuckled. “Pick another, and I’ll change into that.”  
  
“You’re lying.”  
  
“Go ahead. Think of someone.”  
  
The next second, Lars appeared.   
  
James scrambled away from him, ramming into the couch and pushing up against it.   
  
Lars chuckled.   
  
“N-No.” James shook his head. “This can’t be.”   
  
“Choose another, then.”  
  
Then he became the living doll again.   
  
“I see you like this form,” it said. “It does have features you have now, but it isn’t your true self.”   
  
“W-What?”  
  
“You have many faces, many interpretations, but never the true form. For years, you laid dormant, embodying so many different people, waiting for the right time to end the charade.” The doll came closer. “And it has arrived.”  
  
More cloaked figures appeared.   
  
“The time has come.”  
  
James jumped up.   
  
“You must awaken.”  
  
They surrounded him, filling up every space of the living room.   
  
And they chanted.  
  
_homo super teram_  
  
“Awaken, Man of Earth.”  
  
_homo mundi_  
  
“Man of the World.”  
  
_homo peccati_  
  
“Man of Sin.”  
  
_inceptus_  
  
“And kill.”  
  
Tears blurred James’s vision.   
  
They came closer. Encircled him.  
  
He looked at the doll.   
  
And the doll said, “Kill the last of your humanity.”   



	9. Genesis

The end.   
  
James stared out into the darkness.   
  
The end of everything.  
  
They were there, watching. Waiting. Every figure.   
  
Ready for the end. Ready for the beginning.  
  
In principo. In finem.   
  
The beginning. The end.   
  
James teared up.   
  
And he could do nothing.  
  
Nothing but…   
  
“James!”  
  
He gasped.   
  
Pounds on the door—the windows—the walls.   
  
“James, please! Let me in!”  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut. Tears trickled down his cheeks.   
  
“I’m sorry! Okay? I’m sorry for whatever I said, for lashing out at you and leaving you—fuck, it doesn’t matter anymore!”  
  
More pounds.   
  
“Just let me in!”  
  
And more.  
  
“Please, James!”  
  
James sobbed.   
  
“ _I love you!_ ”  
  
The door slammed open.  
  
Light filled the darkness.   
  
In the doorframe, James watched the silhouette of Lars enter and become one with the darkness. “James?” Then the door slammed. Total darkness again. Lars jumped at the sound—James could see him—and scrambled around, searching for a light that would never be found again. “James? Are you here?”  
  
Beyond Lars, James saw the doll, and the others. All cloaked. All watching.  
  
James shook his head no.   
  
They stared, unmoving.   
  
“James?” Lars’s voice wavered. “Please tell me you’re—”  
  
“I’m here,” James whispered.  
  
“Oh thank God. Where are you?” Lars reached an arm out.   
  
James grabbed his hand, pulling him to his body.   
  
And Lars clung to him, swinging his arms around his frame, burying his face into his chest. “Fuck.” Lars sniffled. “I thought you were dead.”  
  
James embraced him just as tight—staring at the cloaked, hooded figures surrounding them.   
  
“I saw so many people die,” Lars said. He shivered in James’s arms. “Everyone is dying, and everything is changing, and I don’t know what’s happening, no one knows what’s going on, and I don’t even know where Kirk and Rob are—“  
  
He shoved his lips over Lars’s.   
  
The warmth. The desperate, needy pressure given back to him.   
  
This last time.   
  
Then Lars’s fingers reached out to his head—and felt bald, bare skin.   
  
Lars jerked away. “What the—“ He leaned back, his hand falling to James’s chest. “What did you do to yourself?”  
  
“I can’t tell you. I can’t even explain it myself.” He gripped him tighter. “I just need you to trust me.”  
  
“James—“  
  
“Please, Lars. I can’t…” His voice cracked. “I won’t do this. Not without your permission.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Just trust me.” He pressed his forehead to Lars’s. “And tell me your mine.”  
  
“But—“   
  
“Say it!”  
  
“I am. I’m yours.”  
  
“Tell me you want to be with me forever.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Say it.”  
  
“I want to be with you forever.”  
  
“Swear you’ll do anything.”  
  
“… Anything.”  
  
“Mind, body and soul.”  
  
He watched Lars shut his eyes.   
  
Watched his lips form the word he needed.   
  
“Yes.”  
  
James smiled.   
  
“Thank you.”  
  
And James gave up finally, as he killed the last of his humanity.   



	10. Infestissumam

A new beginning. In a world with a red sky and blood as common as water, time meant nothing now. Life meant nothing. All would perish. All would die.  
  
All would eventually belong to Him.  
  
_“Pater noster, qui es in in inferno, infaustus nomen tuum…”_  
  
The hooded figures filled up every pew in the cathedral made of rust and shattered stained glass. One of the many thousands He ruled over in this new world.  
  
_“Adveniat regnum tuum…”_  
  
The fallen. The undead. The converted. All belonged to him. All converted by him. They all performed well, executing the Great Plan as it was supposed to be. Destined to be. The fate. The ending of the beginning.  
  
But one stood out.  
  
_“Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in inferno et in terra…”_  
  
He touched the cheek of one hooded figure. Out of all, this one wore a black mask, by His will. Only He will see his face. Because he belongs to Him.  
  
The most beloved one.  
  
His most beloved, most loyal disciple.  
  
_“Hic enim est regnum, et potestas…”_  
  
They all chanted. They all prayed. They brought gifts daily. All shapes and sizes and ages.  
  
But his most beloved worshiped him the best. Loved him the best. Gave him the best.  
  
_“Et gloria in saecula saeculorum…”_  
  
His most beloved presented to him the best screamers.  
  
Screams echoed out of the cathedral into the new world.  
  
Blood-curdling, horrified screams, that ended as fast as they began.  
  
Terrified, inhumane screams, all devoured by Him.  
  
_“Il Padre, Il Filio, Et Lo Spiritus Malum…”_  
  
One by one, the sacrifices arrived. The willing to be converted, and the damned reluctant. Young and adult. Man and woman. Children and elderly.  
  
And He feasted on them all.  
  
_“Omnis Caelestis Delenda Est…”_  
  
The new world. His new world.  
  
All He came to rule.  
  
_”Anti Cristus, Il Filio De Sathanas…”_  
  
Then came a voice.  
  
“Let me go! Please!”  
  
A familiar voice.  
  
“I don’t want to die! Please don’t do this! Oh God, please, I beg of you!”  
  
He looked up from his throne of ebony and brimstone, cloaked in the darkness he enjoyed, to see his most beloved disciple lead a group down the aisle, carrying a bloodied, bruised, wriggling figure, bound in chains.  
  
“Somebody help me! Anybody!”  
  
They brought him to the white altar, stained red and brown and black from all those before, and secured him down, until he could wriggle no more.  
  
“NO! NO PLEASE!” His head shook back and forth. “LET ME GO! PLEASE LET ME GO!”  
  
His most beloved knelt at his feet. “For you.”  
  
He took in the sacrifice before him.  
  
Black curls, scared doe-like brown eyes, terrified, marred skin, bruises and scars and a malnutrition skinny frame...  
  
This one.  
  
Familiar, from his past—the form before his true one came alive.  
  
He smirked.  
  
“ **Kirk.** ”  
  
Kirk jolted. “H-How… how do you know my name?”  
  
He chuckled. “ **Don’t you recognize me?** ” And crawled forward.  
  
The congregation knelt and bowed as one.  
  
As he emerged from the darkness, he touched the head of his most beloved.  
  
And Kirk grew as horrified as the old James ever remembered him, as he stood up to his full length, showing his true, full form to all.  
  
Then, the glint of recognition he was waiting for. The shock and the horror.  
  
“James?”  
  
His laughter petered off into a loud growl.  
  
“ **YOU SHOULD HAVE BELIEVED ME.** ”  
  
He lifed his claws into the air and _roared._  
  
Kirk’s last scream lasted only a second as his claws and fangs dug into hot, warm flesh and feasted once more.  
  



End file.
